Belghazi shook the other Russian’s hand. He motioned for the white guy to come over. Even before Belghazi had introduced him, I was pretty sure I knew who he was.
The NOC. Belghazi’s protector. I let out a long breath as I eliminated this angle as a cause of potential untrustworthiness for Dox. This angle only, though. There was still the cash that we expected to be in play, the opportunity that, as he had put it in Rio, “only knocked once.”
“Let me introduce you to our American friend,” Belghazi told the men. “This is Mr. Hilger. He’s here to make sure that we don’t have to worry about problems with the authorities.”
Hilger shook the Russians’ hands. “And how do you do that, Mr. Hilger?” one of the Russians asked.
I looked around. The Russians were on their third or fourth cigarettes. Belghazi’s Arab driver had just lit up. So had the two Arabs from the van. Everyone was obviously a little on edge. Everyone except Belghazi and Hilger.
“I’m fortunate enough to have some useful connections in both the U.S. and Hong Kong SAR governments,” Hilger said, his voice low and reassuring. It didn’t sound like a boast, just a calm response to a reasonable question. “On occasion, I ask those connections if they would be good enough to look the other way while I conduct some business. Tonight is one of those occasions.”
The Russian might have pressed, but Hilger’s self-possession seemed to settle the matter. The Russian nodded. “Cigarette?” he offered, extending a pack.
Hilger shook his head and said, “No, thank you.”
I wanted to hear more. What was being exchanged tonight? Was this the moment Delilah had been waiting for, after which, she had assured me, she would give me the green light and help me get close?
And who were these “Russians”? Were any of these people connected to Nuchi, the Frenchman I had taken out in Macau, of whom Kanezaki claimed to have no knowledge?
Most of all, where was the money?
But at some point, the quest for perfect intelligence becomes an excuse for a failure to act. The situation seemed manageable for the moment, but it could easily change. I didn’t want to delay any longer.
I took two deep breaths and switched back to Dox’s channel.
“You ready?” I asked.
“Sure I am. Been waiting on you, that’s all.”
“Start with Belghazi. Then the white guy who came with him. Then the two white guys from the Lexus. I think they might be Russian. They look military to me, harder targets than Belghazi’s usual retinue.”
“Roger that.”
“Take out as many as you can. The ones you don’t drop are going to figure out the general direction the shots are coming from. Their only cover is the vehicles. When they move around the vehicles to get away from you, their backs will be to me. I’ll close the pincer.”
“Sounds like a plan, buddy. Here we go.”
At that moment, Belghazi, Hilger, and the Russians moved around to the back of the van. I heard Dox say, “Damn, lost my shot.”
“Hold on, I can still see him. They’re just talking. Belghazi is gesturing to the inside of the van. I think they’re talking about transport arrangements, something like that. Give me a second, I’m going to switch over again.”
“Roger that.”
The Russian was nodding his head as though satisfied with whatever Belghazi had explained to him. I watched Belghazi take out his satellite phone. I switched channels in time to hear him say, “We’re ready for the cargo, please. Thank you.”
He must have been talking to his contact inside. This wasn’t what I had been expecting. I had thought the meeting would be just to inspect whatever the cargo was, confirm its contents, and exchange money. The port guy would take care of bills of lading and country of origin certifications and the other minutiae of Kwai Chung’s EDI, then send the cargo off to its ultimate buyer. But it seemed that the goods were going to change hands right here.
And Belghazi had arrived with the van. I had assumed that he would be selling the cargo. Now I wondered if tonight he wasn’t the buyer. I was fine either way. But I did want to know where that damn money was.
The Russians, it seemed, shared my concern. “You have the cash?” one of them asked Belghazi.
Belghazi nodded. He said something in Arabic to his driver, who walked over to the back of the Mercedes, where he retrieved a large black duffel bag from the trunk. He carried it back behind the van, set it on the ground, and unzipped it. It was stuffed with greenbacks.
“Would you like to count it?” Belghazi asked.
The Russian smiled. “It would take a long time to count five million dollars.”
Holy shit, I thought, what are these guys selling?
“I doubt you would find it boring, though,” Belghazi said, and they all laughed.
Come on, fuckers, move out from behind that van, I thought. But they all stayed put.
Five minutes went by. They all watched the gate. No one spoke. I switched back to Dox.
“They’re still behind the van,” I said.
“I figured. I’d have seen them if they’d gone anywhere else.”
“Did you see that duffel bag?” I asked.
“Sure did. What’s in it?”
“I’m reluctant to tell you. It might affect your shooting.”
“Partner, nothing affects my shooting. When I’m looking through this scope, I could be getting a blow job and perineum massage from midget twins and I wouldn’t even know it.”
“Excuse me for a second. I need to drive a hot poker through my mind’s eye.”
He chuckled. “Well, what’s in the bag?”
“Five million U.S., it sounds like.”
“Well, that’s good,” he said. His tone was soft and even, and I realized he was telling the truth: when he was in sniping mode, he wasn’t going to be distracted by anything not directly related to the task at hand.
A Chinese man on a powered hand truck was pulling up to the gate. Four large metal crates were stacked across the vehicle’s tines.
“They’re going to open the gate,” I told Dox. “But I don’t think anyone is going inside. They’re going to load those crates into the van. Then the Russians are going to pick up the duffel bag and everyone will go back to his car. That’s our moment.”
“Roger that.”
The gate opened and the hand truck came through. The driver lowered the crates into the van, backed out, then stepped off the vehicle. Belghazi and one of the Russians climbed into the van.
“I think they’re inspecting whatever’s in the crates,” I said. “I can’t see inside the van. Shouldn’t be much longer.”
“Roger that.”
A minute later, Belghazi and the Russian came out of the van. They were smiling. Belghazi reached inside his jacket and handed a large envelope to the hand truck driver. The man nodded, got on the hand truck, and went back through the gate, which closed behind him.
One of the Russians picked up the duffel bag and zipped it shut. He shouldered it, then extended his hand to Belghazi. They smiled and shook. Everyone seemed to relax: the deal was done, money exchanged for merchandise, no unpleasant surprises.
Everyone, that is, but Belghazi’s driver, the bodyguard who had carried the duffel bag over from the Mercedes. He was fidgeting, looking from one face to the next. Despite the coolness of the night I could see beads of perspiration on his forehead through the Zeiss binoculars.
No one else seemed to notice. They’d all been worried about so many things-betrayal, the law, problems with the merchandise, problems with payment-none of which had happened. It was natural that their guards were down now, if only for a moment.
Belghazi noticed first. He glanced over at the bodyguard, and his brow furrowed. He said something. With the earpiece switched to Dox I couldn’t hear what. For a second, maybe less, an electric tension seemed to build.
I could see Belghazi getting ready to do something, his center of gravity dropping, his legs coiling beneath him. His instincts were excellent, perhaps dulled just slightly this one time because the source of the problem was a bodyguard, a direction from which he hadn’t expected trouble to come.